disarming perfection
by prouvaires
Summary: -all these lines in the sand that erase themselves, one by one.- MerlinMorgana.


**Disclaimer: **Merlin's not mine. And, sadly, probably never will be.

**Rating: **T

**Pairing: **MerlinMorgana

**A/N**: Thought I'd give this pairing a try … apologies if you think it sucks and I should just stick with ArthurMorgana.

--

The problem with Camelot is that there's _right _and there's _wrong _and people define it so many different ways.

There's wrong if you help the wrong person or talk to the wrong child or buy the wrong bread or love the wrong man.

And there's right if you help the needy and listen to your betters and love _everyone _and always do the _right _thing. Only, just what is the right thing to do? (Because, hatefully, she thinks she knows … and she wishes she didn't.)

See, there's this man (boy) with blue eyes and black hair and he makes her (heavy) heart skip several beats even though she knows he shouldn't. Because, the thing is, there's all these lines drawn in the sand and everyone else seems to know not to cross them. But all the lines hemming her in are blurred and then they're almost totally erased when he walks past and flashes her that sweet (heart-breaking) smile and waves hello.

"You look beautiful," he says gently, and she smiles sadly (because seeing Arthur with Gwen has made her think that men really _do _go for the girls that are beautiful on the inside) and shrugs.

"Thank you," she replies quietly, making her best attempt at a smile (forced, much?) as he hitches his bag higher on his shoulder and excuses himself. She turns to the long silver mirror and regards herself. There's the blank face hovering over a flowing red dress and she's thinking she's done a pretty good job of covering the hurt up when another figure appears behind her reflection.

"Arthur," she acknowledges boredly (she's got this practised tone of voice that she pulls out whenever he's nearby) and he puts out a hand to turn her round, studying her carefully.

"You ready?" he asks, and she glares at him.

"Do I look like I'm not?" she replies, and he sighs.

"Morgana, I'm not in the mood tonight," he tells her tiredly, and she examines his mussed hair and the red mark on his neck and the stars in his eyes and decides that she's _really _sick of all of this.

"Forget it," she announces sullenly, picking her skirts up with one hand. "Why don't you ask _Guinevere _to the banquet, hmm? Because I'm such a _trial _to be with and you've obviously got better things to do. Like my _maidservant._"

As she turns to storm away he reaches out and catches her wrist.

"Morgana," he says (screw him) and he's wearing that really infuriating smirk as she turns slowly to face him. "It's okay to be jealous."

"Fuck you," she replies blankly, and as he releases her in total shock (she's always had this thing about minding her language) she moves quickly up the corridor and into the banquet hall, the doors behind her crashing open as she lifts her head (act confident and no-one questions you, it's an art) to march down to her seat.

"Where's Arthur?" the king asks worriedly, leaning towards her as she seats herself, managing to wipe away a tear without being obvious about it.

"Lowering his standards," she replies coldly, and he gives her a confused gaze (it's a worn-out look) until Arthur storms in and she notices Merlin slip in behind him and suddenly it's too hot to breathe.

"You know being late looks bad," Uther reproaches him quietly, and Morgana smirks as he apologises and tries to look disinterested as Guinevere enters the hall quietly (yeah, he's not nearly as subtle as he thinks he is).

"Did you have a fun afternoon, Arthur?" Morgana inquires blandly, her voice infused with (an impressive yet almost undetectable amount of) spite. He rewards her with merely a glare (he doesn't have a way with words) and she smiles broadly at him as he turns his gaze down into his food.

After the food there's the dancing and this is the part she hates the most because she's handed from man to man and they all shower her with pretty words and prettier gifts and she just wants to be left alone. (After all, there's only one person she wants to be dancing with and he's always standing to one side, half-asleep.)

After a fat noble steps on her foot she damns herself and slips out of the seething crowd, battling her way to Merlin.

"How you doing?" she asks sympathetically as he yawns.

"I'm so bored," he confesses, his eyes dancing (and she wishes he wouldn't do that because he's even _more _loveable) and she holds her hand out.

"Dance with me?" she asks, tugging him gently forwards. His (suddenly dark) eyes dart from her hand to her face and then towards the high table.

"I'm not sure … Arthur … it might not be …"

She squeezes his fingers and takes another step backwards.

"I dare you," she murmurs, and there's more than an invitation to just dance in those two words (yes, he's heard it too) and his eyes flick one last time to the high table.

"Okay," he says suddenly, his fingers closing around hers and allowing her to lead him into the mass of shouting, swaying people. His hand fumbles for her waist with far too little experience and his breath is hot near her ear as he draws her to him and she feels like maybe she's going to cry because being close to him makes her forget how ugly she is on the inside. (And there's irony in all of this because most girls are unhappy being ugly on the _outside_.)

They dance in (terrible) silence, the music filling them up and swaying them against each other until she doesn't even see anyone else in the room. They could be under attack for all she knows as their bodies bend together and his eyes lock onto hers and maybe she could stay like this forever.

"Morgana?" a surprised voice shouts near them (the music's loud), and they spring apart (guiltily) to find Arthur staring at them in astonishment.

"Arthur – " she begins quickly, but he just fixes her with a glare and makes a hand motion she probably ought to recognise.

"What?" she asks, and he huffs in exasperation.

"That means meet me outside now," he snaps angrily, his eyes never leaving hers. Merlin behind her goes to move, but she squeezes his fingers gently (is it normal that they already understand each other just like _that_?) and he remains behind as Arthur half-drags her out of the hall.

"What are you _thinking_?" he fumes, pacing up and down furiously as she leans against the wall and regards him coolly.

"I'm thinking that I want to dance with my friend," she explains calmly (it's funny because she always used to be the immature one) and he whirls round to glare at her.

"Friend?" he repeats in disbelief, and Morgana loses her temper (it's a regular occurrence, wouldn't you say?) and takes one angry step towards him.

"Yes, my _friend. _My only friend, in fact, since you went and stole Gwen from me," she retorts, advancing closer as the lines of his face reshape into guilt (it's about time).

"I didn't – " he begins, but she cuts him off instantly.

"It's alright for you," she spits, "with your knights and the noblemen who visit and Merlin but I have _nobody_. No sisters or friends or even companions since my maid spends all her free time in _your _chambers. I don't even have a parent to talk to – and you have your saintly father. So don't begrudge me my friendship," she finishes, glaring at him, her eyes sparking dangerously.

"I don't want him to get hurt!" the prince explodes, taking a step forwards and suddenly reminding her that (infuriatingly) he's still taller than she is. "I see the way he looks at you and if you encourage him you'll only break his heart!"

Her cheeks flush with delight and there's something inside her chest banging against her ribcage with all its might as she steps backwards, her stomach singing with joy.

"Who says anything about hurting him?" she replies quietly, and Arthur grabs her by the shoulders.

"I've seen what you do to men," he informs her, shaking her a little. "You pick them up and drop them like used toys. If you do that to Merlin, I swear I'll … I'll …"

"Stutter at me," she concludes, brushing past him and back towards the door. "Get over yourself, Arthur," she tells him, turning her head to regard him over her shoulder. He sputters, and with a grin she re-enters the hall, her eyes immediately searching for the one she needs.

"Miss me?" a soft voice breathes into her ear, long fingers slipping into hers, and she laughs quietly.

"You have no idea," she replies truthfully, turning to face him. And as his (darkening) blue eyes stare down at her she thinks that maybe there's a button for normalcy that your parents are supposed to hit at birth and someone forgot to do it for her. (Because feeling this hard about someone isn't _right_.)

"How about getting out of here?" she suggests hopefully, and his eyes search for Gaius and find his mentor sitting on the opposite side of the room, deep in conversation with an old woman of the court, and then he turns back to her and smiles (a private smile that has her ugly insides turning to mush) and, pressing a finger to his lips, tiptoes out of a side door, pulling her along with him.

They start running because … just because, and she's laughing like a child as she sprints along the corridor next to him.

"It's like being free," she gasps as they start climbing spiralling stairs. "Like ascending out of hell."

He chuckles from somewhere below her, and she hears his heavy breathing as he catches up to her. "How do you go so fast?" he enquires with a gasp as she continues upwards, her slippered feet darting like minnows under her gown.

"I used to come up here every day with Arthur when we were little," she confesses, slowing a little for his sake (but don't tell him that, it'll hurt his pride).

"What stopped you?" he pants, closer behind her this time, and she stumbles a little but regains her feet without losing face.

"Uther decided we needed to grow up," she says. "From that day on, I had to be perfect. No more running up staircases."

"Perfect's relative," he points out as they come out on the roof of the tower, the fires in the city twinkling like stars below them.

"Uther's type of perfect," she concedes, not really daring to turn round and look at him. (And how's that for the brave princess she's supposed to be?)

"And what's that like?" he asks gently as he moves to rest his arms on the castellations next to her, his gaze fixed firmly on Camelot.

"Beyond reproach," she tries to explain (she's not very good at it). "Not a hair out of place or the whisper of a rumour."

"That kind of perfect would kill you," Merlin tells her, and he (finally) turns to look at her. There's something in his eyes that makes it suddenly too hard to breathe and so she sinks down to the ground, her back against the rough stone of the battlements.

"I know," she whispers, and he drops to his knees before her as she buries her face in her knees and gives way to the tears she's not supposed to cry. (And she would be laughing if she wasn't crying because this is all so ironic and perfect and wrong.)

"It's okay," he murmurs, his hand slipping unconfidently up to her shoulders. When she shivers under his touch, he slides his hand further up to her chin and raises her face to gaze into her eyes. With a callused finger (all that scrubbing) he wipes away her tears and he might even be going to kiss her when she turns her head to the side.

"You don't want to do this," she whispers, and his face falls.

"Yes, I do."

"No, you think you do," she corrects him emotionlessly (she's done this before). "You think because I'm pretty on the outside I'm pretty on the inside and actually I'm a complete mess because of my past and my magic and my future. You'll regret it."

"Morgana," he says firmly (and she's surprised because he never talks firmly to anyone but Arthur), "you're the most beautiful woman I've ever known, inside and out. You're not ugly," he swears in a low voice, catching her face in his hands again. "Your magic and your past and your future make you … perfect."

She half-smiles, battling to keep from raising her eyes to his. "What kind of perfect are we talking about now?" she asks softly, finally giving in and meshing her eyes with his (and _gods _that's heaven).

"My kind of perfect," he tells her, and then his lips are on hers and she's leaning into him like her whole life has been a build-up to this one moment, and she's not thinking about the future she's seen or the past she's lived but only the present and his skin against hers and his hands in her hair and how _perfect _this feels.

Because even if people define _right_ and _wrong_ differently to her she's found out what perfect is all about and she's never letting it go, because perfect is heaven and she's staying like this forever.

--

**A/N: **Please don't favourite without leaving a review, thanks.


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